


atonement

by DumpsterFireChild (BreakfastLunchAndDinner)



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Cousin Incest, Erik Killmonger Lives, Justice and penance, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreakfastLunchAndDinner/pseuds/DumpsterFireChild
Summary: /əˈtōnmənt/nounreparation for a wrong or injuryErik and T'Challa learn how to atone.Or: Erik wakes up after being stabbed in the chest, and learns he must face Wakanda's justice.Meanwhile, T'Challa wrestles with his father's legacy, and faces the consequences of an isolationist Wakanda.





	1. of trials and cages

**Author's Note:**

> A huuuuge thank you to my beta, [quixotesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/pseuds/quixotesque), and to everyone who took the time to read and critique this work! This piece is 1000x better because of your input. You guys are great! <3

Erik wakes up inside an operating room.

He isn’t surprised. Just one more fucking thing that T’Challa took from him. He’d been ready to die in pursuit of justice for his brothers and sisters, but to have even _that_ taken from him adds insult to an already crushing defeat.

“You’re awake,” a voice says behind him. It’s the Princess. The lines of her body are rigid in suppressed fury, like every muscle is protesting being in the same room as Erik. But she’s dressed in sterile white, and she's poring over holograms of his chest.

“And whose goddamn fault is that?” he snarls, attempting to sit up. Pain shoots up through his left side, though, and he slumps back down.

“The only reason you are on my operating table is because my brother begged me to save your life,” she hisses. “Now stop moving -- you’ll dislodge the kimoyo beads.”

There _were_ kimoyo beads inside his fucking stab wound. And yes, he had dislodged them. Blood begins to drip from the gash, and a nurse rushes in to staunch the bleeding. The Princess herself pulls on surgical gloves, and Erik would laugh if the pain wasn’t so overwhelming.

“You gonna fix the stab wound your big brother put in me, Princess?” he chokes out. Spots are beginning to blur his vision, and he’s breaking out in a cold sweat.

“Bast knows my efforts will be wasted, but yes,” she retorts. She reaches for the wound, but Erik grabs her wrist and looks her directly in the eyes.

“Then don’t,” he grits out. “Just let me die.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I told T’Challa to bury me in the sea, with my ancestors. Please.”

Shuri looks back at him uncertainly, but wrenches her hand from his grip. “Our ancestors are here, N’Jadaka. In the temple you burned to the ground.”

Then she removes the beads from his wound, and Erik blacks out.

 

* * *

 

When Erik next wakes, he finds himself in a comfortable room with a wide window. There’s a desk right next to it, a closet in the corner, and a door that is undoubtedly locked and reinforced.

T’Challa put him in a fucking cage.

The rage flares out, white-hot, and the pillows on his bed don’t stand a chance. The desk follows, crumpling under his anger like tissue. The books and papers on the desk are shredded, the mattress ripped, and when there is nothing left to trash, he turns his attention to the window. He grabs the chair and swings it, but while the chair shatters, the windows don’t.

Reinforced, he thinks bitterly. Probably with vibranium.

The rage leaves him just as quickly as it came, and the reality of his situation crashes into Erik. He’s incarcerated in a foreign country -- no money, no lawyer, no contacts, in a place he had nearly brought to civil war.

Well, Erik thinks to himself, everybody dies. Only now, for him, it’s a matter of when T’Challa wants him to die. Evidently, it's “not yet”.

 

* * *

 

There isn’t much left in the room. A quick check inside his closet only yields clothes. American clothes, he notices, and they still even have tags on them. He nearly loses it again -- what’s T’Challa playing at, pretending to be _considerate_ when he’s got Erik in a prison, probably waiting for a death sentence?

Erik forces himself to calm down. Someone’s going to come see him soon for sure, and there’s no fucking way they’ll catch him in this shitty hospital robe.

He finds a small bathroom next to the closet, which is nicer than he expected. The entire cell -- Erik isn’t under any delusion that this is anything more than a _prison cell_ \-- is nicer than any of the motel rooms Klaue had them bouncing through, and if Erik didn’t appreciate the rain showerhead in the bathroom, he might have been more bitter about it. Figures. Even Wakanda’s prisons are better than Oakland’s projects.

He wraps himself up in the towel he found on the rack, and stares at his reflection.

No scar.

The Princess _was_ a genius. Stab wounds were apparently no big deal to her.

Erik goes to bed, with no pillows and bitterness still laying heavily on his chest.

 

* * *

 

T’Challa visits the next day, flanked by four of the Dora Milaje.

His eyes flick through the room -- lands on the desk and chair, in splinters, the pillow stuffing littering the room, and Erik himself, on a bed with a ruined mattress -- but the bastard barely reacts.

Erik gets to his feet, hands balling up at his sides. Goddamn -- he wants to beat a reaction out of T’Challa’s blank face, but he’s up against five with no panther suit. Okoye glares at him from behind T’Challa, and Erik is sure the only thing stopping her from killing him outright is the King.

“N’Jadaka,” T’Challa says, face inscrutable. “Come with me, we have much to discuss.”

“We?” Erik challenges. “I ain’t got anything to say to you.”

“N’Jadaka --”

“And you don’t get to call me that,” Erik interrupts venomously. “You don’t got the right. It’s Erik to you.”

“You are hardly in a position to be making demands of the King,” Okoye spits.

“Okoye, please,” T’Challa says placatingly. He keeps his eyes on Erik. “As you wish then, Erik. Now come, we _do_ have a lot to discuss, whether you like it or not.” T’Challa turns and sweeps out of the room.

Faced with a group of stone-faced and threatening Dora Milaje, Erik follows him unwillingly.

T’Challa leads him to a room with _breakfast_ spread out on the table, and the presumption makes Erik want to bash T'Challa's face in all over again. But Erik is hungry, not crazy, so he sits and dumps eggs and rice into his plate.

After a beat, T’Challa follows suit, but while Erik tucks into his food methodically, the King seems more interested in staring at Erik than the fried plantains he had taken for himself.

“What’s wrong with you?” Erik snaps. “If you wanted to watch me eat you could’ve just livestreamed that shit, man. They feed me in my cell too, you know, and you got the cameras in my room already.”

T’Challa blinks, and then composes himself. “Erik,” he begins. “I -- you were right.”

Erik freezes. Not what he expected.

The earnestness in T’Challa’s eyes is disarming. “Wakanda has kept itself isolated for so long, we have blinded ourselves from our moral obligations to the world. We have made a great deal of progress in our isolation, but that progress came at a cost.” He looks away. “A cost that others paid for us.”

Erik’s jaw clenches.

“But,” T’Challa continues determinedly, “you have also committed great crimes. While I agree that Wakanda should no longer remain in hiding, the path you would have us take would lead the entire nation to ruin. That is something I cannot allow,” he says sternly. “You murdered Zuri, you killed Aneka, and assaulted many others. And, you burned the greatest treasure that Bast has given our people.”

T’Challa closes his eyes, and sighs. “You must face Wakanda’s justice for your crimes, which is why you have been imprisoned.”

“And why I’ll never get out? How many life sentences you people giving me?” Erik asks bitterly.

T’Challa’s eyes open in alarm. “Life sentences -- what are you talking about?”

Erik rolls his eyes. “I’ve been around, _my King_ , and around the world, murder is prison for life, or the death sentence. Which one am I getting?”

“Death sentence -- what? No!” T’Challa exclaims, looking appalled. “Capital punishment is not something we do in Wakanda. As for your sentence, that is not for me to decide. I came here to inform you that your trial will occur in a week. You must prepare your case.”

T’Challa waves at one of the Dora, and she approaches with a folder.

“You are not allowed electronics yet,” he explains, “so I had your case files printed.” He hands them over, and Erik flips through them. _Murder, manslaughter, assault, desecration of the temple, and conspiracy to commit treason_. About right.  

“If there’s anything you need -- legal books, a consultant, _anything_ \--just let me know.” T’Challa leans forward, the same earnestness bright in his eyes. “I will not fail you again, Erik.”

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, the books that T’Challa had given him on the Wakandan justice system weren’t helpful in predicting the outcome of his trial. For such an inhumanly advanced civilization, Wakanda’s justice and political systems were still fucking tribal - no courtrooms, no judges, just a council of elders meeting up in a grassland somewhere to discuss cases. He’d be pissed at the backwardness, but councils like this were just like juries -- easily swayed. The sob story worked on T’Challa, so what’s to say it wouldn’t work out in this trial?

A guard knocks brusquely at his door, and Erik hastily shoves his papers into his (new) desk.

It’s the Princess. She’s in that white dress again, bringing a kit of what looks to be medical instruments. Okoye is right behind her, glaring threateningly at Erik.

“Hello, Killmonger,” Shuri taunts. “Are your wounds giving you trouble? I hope they are, they’d be the least of what you deserve.”

“Not at all, little Princess,” he greets, smirking. Shuri immediately scowls at that. “You seem to have done a decent job of patching me up, by the way.”

She rolls her eyes, affronted. “If by decent you mean perfect, then yes, I did a decent job. Take off your shirt so I can check your wound.”

“Don’t you got some other people to do this?” he asks pointedly as Shuri inspects his chest for signs of infection. “I’m pretty sure I’m not important enough to be worth a genius princess’ time, ya feel me?”

Shuri rolls her eyes again. “You are a menace of a patient, Killmonger. The last time one of my nurses tried to give you medication by injection, you almost killed him. I don’t want any more of my staff hurt, so here I am.” She pulls out a device from her kit, and gestures for his arm. Erik complies unthinkingly, and winces in pain when Shuri viciously injects him with something.

“The fuck, Princess?!”

“Your vaccines in America are backward,” she sniffs, and moves over to his other arm.

“Not sure why some hot nurse couldn’t give me my shots, instead of a skinny-ass princess.” Shuri actually punches him this time, although it doesn’t really hurt. She _is_ a skinny-ass princess. But she puts a shot of something else in his arm, and it stings much worse this time.

“These aren’t just _shots_ , Killmonger. This second one is a tracker; don’t sleep on this arm tonight if you don’t want to wake up in more pain.”  

Erik freezes. He takes a deep breath. “A tracker?”

“Yes,” she confirms. “It’s standa --”

“So the cameras in this room not enough for big brother?” Erik growls.

Shuri steps back, eyes guarded. “You did try to kill my brother and usurp his throne. Did you really expect to be _let go_ that easily --”

Erik is on her in a second, roaring as he tries to strangle the Princess. “What else does your brother want to take away from me, huh? He should’ve just let me _fucking_ die like I asked --”

A shock of electricity courses through his body, and he blacks out.

 

* * *

  

Erik is brought to the other room, handcuffed, and T’Challa thunders in not long after.

“The audacity,” the King snarls. “I have granted you every mercy and defended you from every Wakandan who wants your head, and you repay me by trying to murder my sister!”

“Shouldn’t have put a tracker in me, then,” Erik says nastily. “Ain't no chains in a tracker, but it still counts as bondage in my book. And you already know how I feel ‘bout that.”

T’Challa takes the seat across the table, eyes simmering with fury.  “Everyday the people surrounding you seek to treat you with tolerance, despite the fact that you have brought nothing but suffering upon them and their families. And yet all you return is spite.”

Erik snorts. “I don’t owe it to them to _be nice_ \-- I don’t owe the world anything. Y’all are the ones that got the debt to be paid, after everything you’ve taken from me --”

“Watch what you say, Killmonger,” T’Challa interrupts, growling. “You talk so much about what the world has taken from you, while the proof of everything you have taken from the world is etched into your very skin.” T’Challa looks at the raised patterns on Erik’s forearms pointedly. “How many scars do you have? How many scars will you have to add, for every Wakandan who died because of your foolish plan?”

“Running out of space here, T.” Erik grins, canines glinting. “Only reserved spots for you and the rest of your father’s descendants.”

T’Challa slams his fist on the table. “If you harm even a hair on Shuri’s head again, Killmonger, I swear --”

“To kill me?” Erik sneers at T’Challa. “Do it. Do it now. I’m handcuffed, I’m surrounded by the Dora -- maybe this time you’ll even have a chance at defeating me.”

“I wi --” T’Challa snaps his mouth shut, breathing heavily.

“Come on, T’Challa.” Erik nods at the panther suit, sitting innocently over T’Challa’s collar bones. “A swipe of your claws and it’ll be over.”

T’Challa shuts his eyes, and it’s a trip, watching him try to control his rage. When he opens them again, his face is blank, but T’Challa’s eyes are still bright in anger.

“The trackers are standard procedure, Erik,” he says, voice deceptively even. “All inmates have it; they’re removed once the sentence has been served.”

“Sorry if I don’t exactly trust you,” Erik snaps. “ _‘I won’t fail you again, Erik_ , but then you turn around and have your sister tag me like a dog? Nah, man, miss me with that bullshit.”

T’Challa runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “It is _standard procedure_. It’s not very different from the practices in Western countries. Even America uses something similar for defendants on parole.”

“Yeah, but in America, ankle monitors don’t shock you out of nowhere,” Erik mutters.

T’Challa’s eyes turn sharp. “I will not apologize for that. You hurt Shuri. Again. She only volunteered to do it because she thought you might be more comfortable if she performed the procedure instead of a stranger.” He levels a piercing glare at Erik. “Until you prove yourself, the function stays.”

Erik meets his gaze head on, refusing to back down. The tension stretches, but the door opens, and Erik is surprised to see a pair of servants bringing in lunch.

“The fuck is this?” he demands.

“I wanted to share a meal with you today,” T’Challa replies sourly. “But I have to attend to Shuri. I cannot stay.” He gets to his feet, and nods to one of the Dora Milaje standing guard around the room. She taps on one of her kimoyo beads, and the handcuffs drop away from Erik’s wrists.

T’Challa turns back to Erik. “Make sure to eat. Your trial is coming up soon, and you need to be prepared.”

Then he turns, leaving Erik at the table laden with food, alone.


	2. Of siblings and breakfasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and T'Challa come to grips with the reality of their fathers' past crimes.

T’Challa is still simmering with anger when he arrives at Shuri’s rooms. He enters without knocking — not unusual between them, especially in the daytime — so he catches Shuri at her desk, making adjustments to her gauntlets, instead of resting on her bed as she was supposed to do. 

“Shuri!” he cries. “You are supposed to be resting!” 

Shuri rolls her eyes. “I’m fine, brother. I’ve rested enough. I don’t need to spend all day laying around when I have work I can be doing.” 

Fair enough. He would have done the same in her position. But T’Challa can see the bruises around her neck already beginning to form. The very sight of the red, angry handprints feels accusatory, and for the first time since he brought his cousin up from the mines, T’Challa regrets his decision to keep Erik Killmonger alive. 

He steps up to Shuri and pulls her into an embrace. 

“I swear to you, I will not let him harm you again,” he promises. 

“ _ I _ won’t let him harm me again,” Shuri corrects primly. “As much as you like taking all the important work for yourself, my protection is not a responsibility that is solely reserved for you.” 

T’Challa laughs at that. “Well, I have found it difficult to delegate because it is a task that is so important to me. You are important to me, Shuri, I cannot lose you.” 

“You won’t. That is why I am updating my gauntlets, dummy.” 

“Maybe you also need vibranium armor,” T’Challa muses. “You can make a tiny habit in the shape of a paw pendant, call yourself the Baby Black Panther, and that way even the kittens you insist on petting will not be able to harm you. What do you think?” 

“If I thought for a second that Mother will allow me to go on cool missions with Nakia, that habit would be done by Friday,” Shuri declares. “But she won’t, and I have more important projects to attend to. You can let go now, brother.” 

T’Challa draws his arms tighter around his sister. “Never!” 

“Let  _ go, _ you over-protective kitty cat!” She laughs, pounding her fist on T’Challa’s chest, and he reluctantly releases Shuri. She settles on the sofa next to her desk, and T’Challa takes the seat next to her. 

“Do not let Mother know I am working here, by the way,” Shuri pleads.“You know how she gets — I have already had to flee my lab twice.” 

“You know she is just worried. As am I.” T’Challa shakes his head. “I should never have presumed to ask you to take charge of his treatment.” 

Shuri looks at him exasperatedly. “Brother, you put a spear clean through him; it punctured several of his organs. I am the nearest medical professional capable of handling an injury that critical. There truly wasn’t anyone else you could ask.” 

Shuri unfortunately has the habit of being right all the time, so he just inclines his head. “Still, though, one of the doctors should have been able to give him the tracker.” 

“No, it really should have been me,” she says firmly. “He injured one of my nurses when we were operating on his wounds, and I am not letting that bastard hurt any more of my staff. At least, with me, he would think twice.” 

Again, she was not wrong. 

“Speaking of our murderous cousin,” she continues, “how is he? I know you were supposed to meet with him today. Or did you cancel?” 

T’Challa sighs in frustration. “No, I spoke with him. He’s still angry — he believes the world owes him reparations for everything that he has lost.” 

“The world?! Owes him reparations?” Shuri repeats, incredulous. “What right does he have to demand reparations, after all the things he’s done and all the people he’s killed?” 

“He’s not that different from W’Kabi, sister. His father was murdered, and our father, his killer, was never put to justice for the crime.”  

Shuri’s fists ball up in anger. “Just like W’Kabi — T’Challa, I watched him throw you off a waterfall! He nearly brought Wakanda to ruin. You cannot tell me that what he did was justified!” 

“No, but I understand his pain,” T’Challa says quietly. He’d gone through the same, not that long ago. “The thirst for vengeance is a powerful emotion, and it can consume a person whole if they let it.” 

“I still can’t believe that Baba killed Uncle N’Jobu. I can’t —” She looks up at T’Challa, eyes wide and distressed. “Baba was a good man. I don’t understand how he could have killed his own brother.” 

“I wish I could go back to the ancestral plane and ask him myself,” he says. He wonders if his father has met his uncle in the ancestral plane; he had only seen the Black Panthers who had come before when he had had the privilege to visit. Perhaps only those who have taken the heart-shaped herb can go there. 

“Still though,” Shuri adds, “that is no excuse for his actions. Baba was murdered too, and yet you didn’t go on a rampage around the globe to exact revenge on his killer!” 

T’Challa winces. Unfortunately, Shuri caught the change in his expression. 

“Brother,” she says slowly. “Is there something you’re not telling me? 

“I, um.” T’Challa clears his throat. “I didn’t go on a rampage around the  _ globe _ , Shuri.” 

“You say that now, but if I ask Ayo and she says you just went on a rampage around  _ Europe _ , by Bast, T’Challa, I will end you! Did something happen apart from Germany and Romania?” 

“Just Siberia,” he mutters. “The point is,” T’Challa continues loudly over Shuri’s arguments, “I have decided not to let vengeance consume me. But it was a difficult decision to make, and a decision that I had the privilege of making because of the advantages my position has given me. Other people do not have the opportunity to forgive so quickly.”

Shuri sighs, and rests her head on T’Challa’s shoulder. “You cannot ask me to forgive him yet, brother. I healed him because you asked, treated him politely because you asked, but forgiveness is not something I can manage until justice has been served for his crimes.” 

T’Challa puts an arm around her, and closes his eyes. “I know. I do not think I can forgive him any time soon, either, for what he did to you. But hopefully, someday, we will.”

 

* * *

 

His mother is much more ruthless than he had expected.

“You should not have let him live, my son,” she says, when T’Challa informs her of N’Jadaka’s trial. 

“I — I could not leave him to die!” T’Challa protests. He gets up, pacing around his mother’s solar agitatedly. “He has gone through much injustice, mama, and while he deserves to be put to trial for his crimes against Wakanda, he is also owed justice for his father’s death.” 

She silences him with a look. “You are very lucky that he broke the terms of the challenge. Otherwise the challenge would still have to go on, and you would have been forced to kill him regardless. There is no way that man will yield. However, that is not what has come to pass. Now we have to bring him to trial, and this is a trial that must both be shown to and concealed from the public.” 

He swallows. “Yes, I understand the difficulty, but —” 

“Do you, really?” There is a bite in his mother’s voice that he hasn’t heard since he was a boy. The light from the late afternoon sun casts shadows over her face, making her look more stern and severe than usual; suddenly, T’Challa feels like a little boy again, chastised for biting off more than he can chew. “You want to give all sides the justice they deserve, but that is not something you can do without dragging your father’s good name through the mud. Exposing that N’Jobu’s disappearance was actually because he died at T’Chaka’s hands — that is madness.” 

“It was because he helped Klaue steal the vibranium, mama,” T’Challa tries to explain. “Zuri told me that —”

“But that’s exactly it, isn’t it?” she interrupts. “Zuri told you. Zuri, who is dead, whose word cannot be corroborated. Whose testimony is impossible to get, and even if he were still alive, the evidence would have been circumstantial at best.” 

He stops by the window, considering. “Baba must have gone to America with the Dora Milaje. I will ask the General for records as to who his companions were. Perhaps I can ask them for more information, or they can lead me to more evidence.” 

“And in that case, what will happen?” his mother asks sharply. She gets up and joins him where he stands, eyes flinty as she studies T’Challa. “Your uncle will be exposed of treason; your father will be exposed of fratricide. In the name of Wakanda, yes, but that is still another stain on the name of the Royal Family. This will be a public relations nightmare, even worse than what your cousin was responsible for.” 

T’Challa struggles to come up with a solution, but unfortunately he comes up blank.  

His mother takes pity on him, and reaches up to cup his cheek. “You are a good man, T’Challa. That is why it has not even occurred to you that the simplest way to settle this matter is to kill Killmonger, or to exile him.” 

“I cannot do that, mama,” he says, tired, leaning into her touch. “That is not the Wakanda I want to lead. We are the greatest nation in the world; we must be above untruths, we must be above injustice.” 

The Queen smiles at him sadly. “Then you have a lot of work ahead of you. I have no doubt that you will do your best, but in this, T’Challa, you must understand that your best may not be enough.” 

T’Challa covers his mother’s hand with his, and sighs. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

He may not have a solution for the issues his mother brought up, but T’Challa is determined to uncover the truth about N’Jobu. If N’Jadaka cannot receive justice for his father’s death, at least T’Challa can give him the truth of what happened. 

It takes him two days complete the evidence he needs. 

The Hatut Zeraze are fanatic record keepers; he begins his investigation there. He had yet to meet with the chief of the War Dogs, and when T’Challa finally pays a visit to their headquarters, he is astounded by how little he knew of his father’s espionage efforts. 

“You’ll want to be updated on the status of all our War Dogs,  _ kumkani _ , of course,” Iman, the chief, says to him in the privacy and secrecy of her office. “But before that, here are the files of all the War Dogs who complied with Prince N'Jadaka’s orders.” 

The list was ominously long. 

“I don't understand,” T’Challa says, disheartened. “Why would they be so quick to betray Wakanda?” 

Iman produces a separate tablet from behind her desk, and scrolls through the files with T'Challa. “These agents have shown signs of radicalization for a while now, my King. They were supposed to be eliminated from the field, but your father’s passing had thrown many of our projects off schedule, and we were waiting for official directives from the Crown after your ascension.” 

“Eliminated from the field — surely you don't mean assassination?” T’Challa asks, horrified. 

All that earns him is a hard stare; not for the first time, T'Challa feels young, naive, and out of his depth. 

“Assassination is our last resort, usually; most agree to early retirement and reintegration,” she tells him. “But yes, at your father’s direction, all War Dogs are monitored both inside and outside Wakanda.”

T’Challa takes a deep breath to calm himself. He had never suspected his father of being this paranoid, even of their own people. “When did Wakanda begin to distrust her own sons and daughters, that Wakandans giving their lives in service of country are deemed threats to be watched and killed at will?” A government, assassinating its own citizens — T’Challa cannot believe it, cannot accept it. 

“Since a cell of War Dogs decided to betray our country and help that colonizer thief Klaue steal our vibranium,” Iman replies bluntly. “If we will not eliminate them, what would you have us do?” 

T’Challa squeezes his eyes shut as he rubs at his temples. “Call them all back to Birnin Zana. I would speak to each of them alone; I want to understand why they believed that Killmonger’s methods were necessary.” 

She nods, and makes a note. “That can be arranged. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?”

“Nothing on new projects. Make sure to stop all significant operations until the War Dogs arrive home. I believe we need to reevaluate our strategy according to their feedback. If so many of them think this way, there must be a reason why.” 

Iman raised her eyebrows, but otherwise doesn't object. 

“But there is another matter I wish to discuss,” T’Challa continues. “The records I requested — do you have them? 

She produces a thick dossier, in print, from a safe behind her desk. “I put this together as soon as you asked,  _ kumkani _ ,” she says. “It was difficult. All of Prince N’Jobu’s files are so classified, they only exist in print. This is all we have. Your father may have had more information, but we have no access to his personal archives.”  

He takes the folder from Iman, and stands. “Thank you, Iman. Contact my office as soon as all the War Dogs are back.”

Iman stands as well, and shows him to the door. “Of course,  _ kumkani. _ ”

 

* * *

 

On the second day, T’Challa clears his schedule, and uses his time to gather more information from the U.S. government, and his father’s personal archives. 

Hacking into the U.S. government's records was child’s play, but his father’s personal files, not so. It takes him hours to crack the encryptions. If this were anything else, Shuri would be taking charge of the information retrieval, but T’Challa had already asked too much of her when he brought Killmonger out of the mines. 

When T’Challa finally succeeds in cracking the first layer, though, there’s a deluge of information -- flight records, journal entries, spreadsheets, everything. 

The files from 1992 are packed -- direct reports from Zuri and N’Jobu, videos of N’Jobu’s activities taken surreptitiously -- and T’Challa is once again appalled by his father’s distrust in his uncle. How had their relationship gotten this strained? Klaue’s theft and N’Jobu’s betrayal were devastating to be sure, but if T’Challa were in that position, and Shuri had betrayed him —

Well. Shuri did not steal vibranium and peddle the stolen treasure to the West. This is thankfully not a dilemma that he has to navigate.   
  


* * *

 

It’s nearly midnight when T’Challa finishes decrypting all of the information, and he is stunned to find video recordings from the body camera on his father’s Panther suit. 

T’Challa has body cameras installed in his own suit; it’s useful to be able to go back and analyze his own battles. But he hadn’t considered that his father would have one as well. If he did —

The folder for the 1992 videos is similarly packed. T’Challa scrolls through them, a lump forming in his throat, and unfortunately, he finds what he is looking for. 

His blood runs cold when he sees the projects of Oakland, familiar to him after watching many of the videos Zuri took of N’Jobu in California. 

_ “Come, baby brother, how are you holding up? You look strong!” _

It’s strange to see Uncle N’Jobu like this. He’s older than T’Challa remembers; the circles under his eyes deep. 

_ “Glory to Bast, I am in good health. How’s home?” _

_ “Not so good. Baby brother, there has been an attack. This man — Ulysses Klaue — stole a quarter ton of vibranium from us, and triggered a bomb at the border to escape. He knew where we hid the vibranium, and how to strike. He had someone on the inside.” _

In the video, Uncle N’Jobu refuses to look away from T’Chaka’s eyes.  

_ “Why are you here?” _

_ “Because I want you to look me in the eyes, and tell me why you betrayed Wakanda.”  _

T’Challa hits pause.

 

* * *

 

The day the documents are completed, he tells the palace staff to prepare breakfast, and pays N’Jadaka a visit, dossier in hand. A single kimoyo bead, cut off from the network, contains all of the digital files. 

T’Challa had agonized over the videos all morning, but ultimately, he decided to include them. If things go awry, he could give the paper files to N’Jadaka and withhold the digital, he reasons to himself. 

When he arrives at their meeting room, N’Jadaka is already seated at the breakfast table, looking as angry and murderous as the last time they were here.

“Erik,” he greets, settling into his seat, placing the dossier to the side momentarily. The Dora accompanying him spread out, joining their sisters who were already in the room, guarding N’Jadaka. 

Their last meeting ended disastrously, but T’Challa is determined to do this properly, this time. “How have you been?” 

N’Jadaka says nothing; instead, he glares at T’Challa wordlessly, jaw muscles twitching. He pointedly ignores the file T’Challa brought with him..

“If you do not wish to begin with business, that is also fine.” T’Challa gestures to the food. “We can have breakfast first.” 

He takes a piece of toast, and is spreading mango jam on it, when N’Jadaka suddenly speaks. “Why are you even here?” he demands.

T’Challa drops his toast back onto his plate, frustrated. 

“Are we really going to argue again, Erik?” he asks. “I am sorry for my behavior the last time we spoke -- in hindsight, I should have been more understanding of your objections to the tracker. I thought we had resolved this?” 

N’Jadaka snorts. “ _ You _ resolved it. I don’t think anything I said made a difference to you, King.”  

“It’s  _ standard procedure — _ ” 

“Yeah, yeah, I already know that shit.” N’Jadaka bares his teeth. “Your sister told me, back when I nearly killed her and she nearly killed me, remember? But that’s not my point.” 

T’Challa tamps down at the fury that wells up when Shuri’s name is mentioned. “And what is your point?” he asks acidly. “Beyond provoking me?” 

“You gotta quit acting like I have a choice,” his cousin snarls. “You wanna gloat? Go ahead. You wanna kill me? Ain’t nobody stopping you. But quit playing  _ breakfast buds _ , T’Challa — I’m sick of it, and if this is all you’re going to do, you’re wasting my time.” 

_ Breakfast buds? _ Where was N’Jadaka getting these ideas? 

“I’m sorry if these meetings have been  _ wasting your time _ , as you say,” T’Challa grits out, “but I do actually have a purpose for visiting you. Okoye!” 

The General steps up to the table. “Yes, my King?” 

“Leave us,” T’Challa instructs. All six of the Dora Milaje in the room balk at the order. 

“ _ Kumkani!  _ I cannot do that!” Okoye objects, eyes darting to Erik. 

“Okoye, please. Leave us,” T’Challa repeats. He tilts his head down subtly; the Panther habit rests around his neck. In truth, he hasn’t removed it since his battle with N’Jadaka, down at the mines. “I will be fine.” 

Okoye purses her lips, but nods. Two bangs of her spear, and the warriors file out of the room, leaving T’Challa alone with his cousin. 

N’Jadaka regards him warily, brows furrowed. 

“You lost your father because of my father,” T’Challa begins, as steadily as he can. “Whatever else anyone may say, I owe you the truth about what happened the day your father was killed, at the very least.” He slides the dossier he has compiled on N’Jobu across the table. 

N’Jadaka’s eyes widen, and he grabs at the file with greedy hands. T’Challa watches, cautious — he had done his best, but none of the documents he found painted N’Jobu in a flattering light.

“I have done my best to collect this; this contains top secret information from the Hatut Zeraze, from Wakanda’s courts, and from my father’s personal records. I even gathered supporting documentation, whatever I could find, from U.S. databases.” 

N’Jadaka looks up abruptly, eyes narrowed. “Why are you giving me this?” 

T’Challa sighs. “You are owed justice. My father killed yours; but since he is dead, he can no longer put this to right with you. I am atoning for his wrongs, and this is the best way I know how to do it.”

N’Jadaka stares at him, unable to hide his shock. His grip on the folder tightens; his hands, knuckles white, begin to shake. 

“Uncle N’Jobu committed a great crime when he helped an outsider steal vibranium from Wakanda,” T’Challa continues, looking away, “Many people died because of his actions. But he was right. You are right. Wakanda has stayed at the sidelines for too long; it has become complicit in the injustices that plague the world today. Uncle N’Jobu’s motivations were noble and admirable, and it seems that many among our War Dogs share the same sentiments. I have called them all back to Wakanda; their insights will be valuable in guiding our new foreign strategy.” 

“Noble and admirable — and y’all still killed my father?” N’Jadaka says. But there’s no heat to the accusation; just resignation. N’Jadaka does, after all, have the proof of his father’s crimes in his hands. 

T’Challa knows intimately what it feels like: to put your father on a pedestal, and to have that image of him tarnished after his passing. 

“I don’t — Zuri said that my father had done it to protect him, but…” T’Challa trails off. The kimoyo bead containing the footage feels heavy on his wrist. 

N’Jadaka hardly seems to hear, though, silently burying himself further into the file. The more he reads, the more his expression crumples; bit by bit, the aggression, the  _ anger _ , is stripped from his face, leaving behind the boy mourning for his father that T’Challa had glimpsed in the mines. He averts his gaze from the naked grief in N’Jadaka’s eyes; it reminds him of Tony Stark, back in Siberia. Another grown man reduced to the grief of a child. 

T’Challa comes to a decision. 

“N’Jadaka,” he says. His cousin looks up, and N’Jadaka’s eyes are wet. It’s a shock, to see N’Jadaka like this, when he usually seems so untouchable, so invulnerable. T’Challa swallows, but presses on. “N’Jadaka. I -- my father’s suit was equipped with a body camera. There’s footage. I haven’t looked at it. I didn’t think it was my place to look before you did, but I have it.” 

Something seems to shatter in his cousin’s gaze. “Wha —” N’Jadaka’s voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “What?” 

“I have footage,” T’Challa repeats. He pulls a single kimoyo bead off his bracelet, and sets it on the table between them. 

N’Jadaka stares at the bead, but seems frozen in his seat. Tears collect at the corners of N’Jadaka’s eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. “Why would you make me  _ watch _ ?” he rasps. 

T’Challa meets N’Jadaka’s gaze head on. He had wrestled with this footage all day; there is cruelty in truth, after all, and N’Jadaka has faced enough cruelty already. But only the truth can set him free, now.

“You are owed the truth. The whole truth. If you don’t want to watch it, that is your choice, but I would not keep this from you.” 

Still, N’Jadaka makes no move to take the bead. His face is twisted, terrible to look at; his mouth is pressed into a hard line as he stares at the bead like it contains all the secrets that have haunted him for his entire life. 

_ Well,  _ T’Challa thinks,  _ it does.  _

The silence stretches — T’Challa’s stomach drops, and he wonders where he miscalculated. 

“If you don’t want it, if you are not ready,” T’Challa says carefully, as gently as he can, “I can keep it until you are ready to see it. Or destroy it, if you wish.” 

N’Jadaka’s head jerks up; his eyes are wide and a little wild. 

“I’ve been waiting my entire life to know,” he says hoarsely. “You ain’t taking it away from me now, T’Challa.” 

T’Challa waits for him to take it, but N’Jadaka doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say anything more. Maybe he can’t. The pain from having this old wound reopened must have stunned N’Jadaka into silence. In this, they are once again similar; T’Challa has been haunted by footage of the bombing at Vienna enough to know what N’Jadaka will go through, when he watches the video. 

After another minute in silence, T’Challa pushes his plate away, toast untouched. He has seen more than enough already; right now, N’Jadaka needs, and deserves, privacy. 

“Take your time with what I have given you. This is top secret information; if you intend to use it for your trial, let me know, and we can see if there is something we can do to accommodate your plans.” T’Challa rises from the table. “Good day, N’Jadaka.” 

He takes his leave; when he glances back, however, N’Jadaka is still at the table, kimoyo bead where T’Challa left it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up -- the next chapter is going to be intermedia; it'll be composed of various news clips, feature articles about Erik's upcoming trial, and the transcript of the trial itself. If you have any comments on that, lemme know! Also -- if you can spare the time, let me know if you read fanfic on mobile! I'm preparing some pictures for the next chapter, and I'd like to know for formatting purposes lmao 
> 
> Thank you so much to the people who made this chapter possible; you guys know who you are. YOU MADE THIS THING SO MUCH BETTER I CAN'T EVEN DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU GUYS FOR IT! <3
> 
> All comments and critique are welcome, but please, be respectful. Thanks! I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


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